


Down Into The Fire

by A_Study_In_Johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Sherlock, Worried John, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 06:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10380471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Study_In_Johnlock/pseuds/A_Study_In_Johnlock
Summary: What happens when everything that occurs in S4 is just a drug induced dream when Sherlock overdoses in HLV?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that's been floating around just about forever in my head. During TST, most of the Johnlock Tumblrs speculated that Sherlock was dreaming, that there was too much water imagery, too many mirrors, and things weren't adding up. I began to theorise that maybe S4 is an entire dream sequence due to the fact that Sherlock is in a drug induced coma and is still dreaming, that in TAB when he thought going over Reichenbach Falls would wake him up, he, instead, fell deeper within himself.
> 
> Okay, with that being said, I hope you all enjoy.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure when it happened. When his world was suddenly twisted and muddled beyond recognition. He tried to think. Perhaps it was the night at Angelo’s. Perhaps it was Barts. He’d managed to throw everything in shambles and he couldn’t figure out how to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. The puzzle of his life. The puzzle of John Watson. Images flashed in Sherlock’s mind–the taste of blood in his mouth, John’s fist colliding with his face–again and again. Then, came the kicks. Sherlock could practically still feel the weight of John’s shoes against his ribs.

Now, they were putting their lives back together. After Mary. After Eurus. John was assisting Sherlock in mending their old flat–Sherlock’s flat, he’d corrected himself on too many occasions. They worked together to get rid of the debris and ash and worked to get Sherlock’s flat back to its original state. But Sherlock realized that  _ everything  _ couldn’t be the same as it started. That things couldn’t go back to the way they were. 

It was a couple hours after their last case–an action packed, adrenaline run that had Sherlock and John breathless and laughing in the downstairs hall on Baker Street. It felt like that first night. Sherlock felt his pulse thrumming, felt that familiar proximity of John, his warmth. But, of course, it was broken. When the adrenaline died out, and the laughed faded, John gave Sherlock a small smile and said, “I should go pick up Rosie. Molly’s had her all day.”

Sherlock nodded quickly, despite his forming disappointment. He recalled the days when he and John would climb the stairs and John would remove his jacket to make them tea before writing up a new blog post. “Yes,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’ll...phone you if Lestrade has another case for us.”

John’s dark blue eyes met his and he nodded. “Yeah.”

And that was their goodbye. John left and Sherlock was left alone in the suddenly cold and dark hall, filled with too many memories he didn’t care to think about. Swallowing down his emotions, Sherlock started upstairs when, suddenly, his body lurched forward in pain. He cried out in the silence and his knees hit the fourth step. It was something he’d felt before–the pain of an overdose. His body began to seize and his muscles began to tighten. He couldn’t  _ move.  _ He could only feel the agonizing pain that overtook him.

_ I don’t want to die. _

Sherlock curled up within himself on the steps and waited for the room to darken. For the pain to stop.

Then, he heard heaven.

_ “Sherlock?” _

John.

Sherlock’s lips tried to form the word to no avail; he was slipping far, far away into any abyss he knew he’d never climb out of.

_ “Sherlock…” _

John’s voice was so far, it was like a muddled dream he couldn’t reach. He wanted to cry out to him, to beg him for help, to tell him the truth. 

Finally, Sherlock used the last of his willpower to speak, to give back.  _ “John,”  _ he voiced, the only word he could manage.

Then, everything faded to black.

 

***

 

_ He’s stopped moving… _

_ Dr. Watson, you may recall the list you read on the tarmac. _

_ I know...I just. He has to wake up. _

_ It’s much worse this time. Worse than I ever anticipated. _

_ What do we do? _

_ All we can do. Wait. _

***

 

Sherlock’s eyes drifted open to a steady, high pitched beeping and bright lights.  _ Hospital,  _ he immediately deduced as his brain came back online. He felt drained of all energy, as if he’d been through a great trauma. Sherlock started by moving. His fingers went first. He assessed that they were fine, along with his arms and legs. It wasn’t until he tried to sit up that he suddenly felt hands on him.

“Sherlock, _no_.”

They were strong, worn hands. Army doctor’s hands.  _ His  _ army doctor. Sherlock looked up and his eyes searched until he found those familiar warm, dark blue eyes.

“ _ John _ ,” Sherlock breathed, grasping at him.

Then, John was hugging him and Sherlock was suddenly breathing in the scent of cheap soap and hospital, which made Sherlock question how long John had been there sitting by his side.

When John pulled away, Sherlock finally focused on his face.  _ Unkempt hair. Bloodshot eyes. One week’s worth stubble. Slept in, wrinkled shirt. Shaky hands.  _

Sherlock frowned. John’s hands didn’t shake.

“God, you’re still…” John’s voice broke as he hunched over, holding the bridge of his nose.

_ Angry? _

“How are you still managing to deduce me after…?” John shook his head with a wistful, teary eyed chuckle. 

“John,” It was all Sherlock could manage until John rushed to grab Sherlock the cup of water sitting at his side. John’s arm came around his shoulders to him up, holding the cup to his lips. Sherlock managed a couple sips of the lukewarm water and cleared his throat. When he began to speak, his throat still felt dry. “Where’s Rosie? I thought you said you had to go get her.”

John’s eyebrows stitched together in confusion. “Who’s Rosie?”

Sherlock’s expression began to mirror John’s. “What do you mean ‘who’s Rosie’ she’s your–” He cut his words off, blinking in realization. John’s hair was still cut short.  _ Cut short.  _ John hadn’t thought to grow his hair out until Mary’s third trimester.

“W–why am I here?” Sherlock’s hands began to shake. 

John’s frown deepened. “You don’t remember?”

“ _ John _ . Why am I here?” Sherlock repeated in a more desperate tone.

“You...overdosed. On the plane. When it came back around, Mycroft, Mary, and I...we found you and you began talking about a woman. Ricoletti, I believe? I’m not sure. You knew about Moriarty’s supposed return and began comparing it to the case in the 1895 and Mycroft realized you’d taken…” John trailed off at the memory, his expression taking a dark turn. “And then...you passed out. Then, the seizing began. So, we took you to the hospital. They had to, uh, pump your stomach…” John’s eyes began to tear up again, but he hid it well. Anyone who wasn’t Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed and, as a result, Sherlock felt a wave of guilt wash over him.

“How long have I been here?” Sherlock inquired.

“Just a day or two,” John murmured.

“No…” Sherlock shook his head. “No, I...I woke up.”

Confusion washed over John’s features. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing. How soon can I go?”

“Sherlock. You need to focus on healing.”

“ _ No, _ ” Sherlock said defiantly. He had no choice. “I have to find Eurus.”

John licked his lips, an action of frustration. “Who is Eurus?”

“Where is Mary?” Sherlock fully sat up, attempting to remove his IV. John immediately grabbed his wrist and wouldn’t let go.

“Sherlock.” It was all he said. He wanted an explanation.

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned, unsure of where to go next. “John, there is a time and a place–”

“And it’s right now.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at John. “Not when my sister is plotting ways to kill us!”

John stopped and slowly released Sherlock’s wrist. “Sherlock, please. For once in our friendship... _ explain.” _

Sherlock’s face formed into a more tortured expression. “I can’t, John. I just can’t.”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, his teeth pulling at the inside of his cheek. Sniffing, John finally nodded–coming to his conclusion. “Okay.”

***

 

Of course, Mycroft had a few choice words when John attempted to check Sherlock out of the hospital. Now, Sherlock was sitting in one of Mycroft’s cars as they hissed at each other while John sat at the end, glancing out at the passing buildings. 

“Sherlock, we agreed–”

“It. Was. For. A  _ Case.”  _ Sherlock gritted out, impatiently.

“I know the difference between  _ ‘for a case’  _ and resolutely overdosing.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, frustration washing over him. Then, he spoke so very softly, Mycroft almost missed his next word. “Eurus.”

Mycroft’s face visibly went pale as the car pulled up to Baker Street.

“I thought so.” Sherlock muttered as John hurried out of the car to help him. Mycroft didn’t follow. John let them into the hall and, abruptly, Mrs. Hudson was rushing towards them in her motherly fashion.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she cried. “Why? Why leave us again?”

To John’s and Mrs. Hudson’s surprise, Sherlock wrapped Mrs. Hudson in his arms. Memories of Mrs. Hudson flashed in Sherlock’s mind–all her help after John left, when John was livid with him– _ how could he overlook her? How could he overlook her love for him and John? _

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson breathed while John watched as if he were having an out of body experience.

Sherlock pulled away and looked down at Mrs. Hudson. “I won’t leave again.” he swore. Then he started up the stairs, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson behind in shock. For now, he was on a mission.

When he stepped into their flat, an air of familiarity washed over him. No longer did it reek of debris, but of chemicals and books. The corners of the front room hid clutters of papers and strewn books, the mantle held his skull and knife. His microscope stood on the table as if waiting for his next experiment and Sherlock let out a shaky breath. 

_ It had all been a dream. _

Sherlock figured, when he’d told 1895 John that he thought he’d wake up by falling over and into Reichenbach Falls, he’d fallen deeper into his psyche. While not intentional, he’d learned a lot.Victor Trevor. Eurus. Mary. Norbury. 

Sherlock immediately took to the couch and began sifting through his brain, recalling  _ every  _ detail so he could avoid everything the second time round.

John finally stepped into the flat, looking at Sherlock with an unsure gaze. He slipped his jacket off and came over to sit across from Sherlock on the coffee table. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, long fingers steepled under his chin. John looked at Sherlock with sadness in his eyes,  _ he’d almost lost him again. _

He waited for Sherlock to move.  _ Anything _ . Absolutely anything, but Sherlock didn’t move a muscle. Eventually, he went to make tea, pouring them both a cup, just in case Sherlock came out of mind palace. John didn’t think he could find it within him tonight to leave Sherlock, so he sent Mary a quick text to let her know that Sherlock was back home and that John was going to look over him for the night. Her reply came two minutes later, bidding him goodnight. She expressed no happiness to Sherlock’s well-being and John didn’t expect her to.

John placed Sherlock’s tea next to himself on the coffee table as he sat back down, facing the man he’d almost lost time and again. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was climbing the stairs in his mind palace, attempting to figure out where he went wrong. He could recalled Eurus now perfectly, her dark hair and blue eyes, matching the coldness of Mycroft and him. He could almost feel the gun in his hands as he pointed it under his chin in opposition to Eurus’ game. 

Then, all he could hear was the gunshot ringing out–not him, but going through Mary and, abruptly, he was in the aquarium, holding her until John stormed in, forcing Sherlock’s unsteady hands away, fixing him with a murderous look that had terrified Sherlock to his core.

He was caught in a nightmare, one where he could only feel John’s blows and Culverton’s gloved hands cutting off his airways. He cried out for help, and John was there to pull him out of his own head.

John looked terrified as his eyes searched Sherlock’s grey-green eyes. Sherlock noted that it had gotten dark outside. 

“Where’s…” Sherlock trailed off, exhausted. He was waiting for his heart rate to calm down, but it didn’t seem to be slowing. “Why aren’t you home?”

John frowned. “And you leave you here?”

Confusion washed over Sherlock. “But Rosie...she’s with Molly.”

“Sherlock... _ who  _ in the world is Rosie?”

Sherlock blinked several times.  _ Yes.  _ He was still here. “Sorry,” he cleared his throat. “Dream.” John didn’t look as if he believed him and Sherlock didn’t expect him to; John was much too clever for that. 

“No, that’s the second time you’ve said the name Rosie. Who is she?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I’ve no idea.” then his eyes focused on a teacup sitting next to John on the coffee table. John held his cup in his hands, empty. “That mine?” Sherlock reached for it anyway and took a long sip. While it had gotten cold, it was just the way he liked it. As he set the cup back down into its saucer, he looked up at John. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” was all John could say as he suspiciously watched Sherlock’s every move. “Are you tired?”

Although Sherlock didn’t want to admit it to himself, he was exhausted. And he definitely didn’t want to admit to himself that, not only did he not want John to leave, he was afraid of having another nightmare of the timeline that apparently didn’t exist.

“No, I think I’m alright,” he lied, but he was  _ tired  _ of lying. He didn’t lie to the other John. He’d made peace with himself that lying to John wasn’t the cleverest option, not when he trusted John with his life. Perhaps he could trust John with this. John began to nod, but Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “I might be...a little tired.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the way the right side of John’s mouth twitched up into a warm, amazed smirk.

“Okay,” John murmured. Then he took a deep breath before setting his cup down. “Yeah, okay. Let’s get you to bed.”

 

***

Sherlock took a shower as John made more tea, making sure Sherlock would actually drink it while it was hot this time. There was an immense difference of emotion based on what was happening on the other side of the bathroom door. For John, as he steeped Sherlock’s tea, he wondered what was going through the detective’s complicated mind. For Sherlock, his brain could only focus on the water.  _ Water, everywhere.  _ The aquarium where the confined water surrounded their every move. The water filling his lungs as AJ forced him under in the pool, breaking the Thatcher bust, finding the  _ AGRA  _ memory stick. Sherlock believed that, when he jumped into Reichenbach Falls, he managed to fall deeper into himself.

There was a vast difference in their minds as Sherlock was being haunted by his own mistakes and failures while John’s worry of what was trapped in Sherlock’s head overtook him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all feedback! Let me know if you liked it! Or let me know whether you noticed anything I did and/or any inconsistencies I made.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: consulting-writer@tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John.  
> It was always John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two for you guys! I believe in instant gratification on smut–I think our boys have waited long enough for each other.

While Sherlock’s sheets were cold, to him, the familiarity brought comfort. He knew, soon, he and it would warm up and he would be able to sleep. If anything, the idea of sleep sent an even colder shiver down his spine and Sherlock began to speculate the fact that he was experiencing blatant  _ fear.  _ He didn’t know how to rid himself of it, how to make the images and the memories disappear. Then, his brain came to a shocking halt when John stepped into his room with a porcelain tray that had obviously come from Mrs. Hudson, carrying a steaming cup of tea and two pieces of toast settled on a plate.

_ John.  _

It was always John. John had always managed to make Sherlock’s brain focus, quiet. He wasn’t an idiot: he needed John. But how in the world could he ask of such a thing when John had to get home to Mary? Abruptly, at the thought of Mary, Sherlock forced away the voice in the back of his mind that threatened to break through.  _ Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell and– _

“Eat,” John ordered as he slid the tray across Sherlock’s lap, taking a seat by Sherlock’s legs. 

“I’m not–”

“Doctor’s orders.” 

Sherlock smirked, despite himself. “Only a fool argues with his doctor.” John smiled warmly at him as Sherlock picked up a piece of toast, taking a small bite. Although the last thing he wanted to do was eat, Sherlock ate anyway. For John. Anything to see that smile. Anything and everything, in Sherlock’s power, to prevent John from becoming that marred man that even John himself had come to hate.

By the time Sherlock had finished his tea and one piece of toast, John told him it was time for bed.

“It’s getting late,” John noted, taking the tray into his hands. As he was about to turn for the door, he added in, “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Sherlock stopped. “You’re not going home?”

John turned to look at him, a frown marred his features. “No, of course not. I’m not leaving you in this state. I can’t…” John trailed off with a small exhale. “So, yeah. I’ll be upstairs.”

“John?” It seemed to ring out in the silence as dark blue met green-grey. John was waiting, Sherlock had his attention, he just couldn’t force the words past his lips. His hands twisted in his lap and John’s eyes didn’t miss the movement as they narrowed minutely in a very Sherlockian manner. “W-would you mind...s-staying in my room for the night? I...I’m afraid…” he wanted to leave it there, but his brain couldn’t let him. “The nightmares, John. I can’t handle them in isolation–it’s too much.”

A distraught expression washed over John and he nodded. “I’ll go set this in the kitchen,” he murmured, gesturing down to the tray. “Give me a moment.”

Sherlock felt his shoulders fall at some of the weight that had been lifted from his shoulders. John emerged a moment later and shut Sherlock’s door behind him. 

“If you need pyjamas, they’re in the fourth drawer,” Sherlock nodded towards his dresser.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling the drawer open. He sifted through for three seconds before pulling out a grey pair of pyjama bottoms. “I’ll be in the bathroom,” John announced before heading through the door in Sherlock’s room. He could do nothing now but wait for when John returned and when the knob twisted and John let himself into Sherlock’s room, everything became  _ very  _ real. 

Sherlock busied himself by making room for John and when the army doctor climbed in next to him, Sherlock felt the panic begin to subside. Sherlock turned to shut the light off, the only dim light coming from the lamp on John’s bedside table. Sherlock settled against his pillow and he felt John relax next to him.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He assumed John had fallen asleep ages ago, but he was sorely mistaken when John spoke very quietly.

“You had nightmares when you were in hospital.” 

Sherlock turned to look at John who was lying on his back, one arm resting behind his head. Sherlock didn’t note the way John’s shirt had ridden up to reveal his hipbones.

“Did I?” Sherlock inquired, turning fully now to rest on the side facing John.

“Yeah,” John murmured. “It was terrifying. First, it was ‘ _ Mary, no’– _ I remember it came out of nowhere. Then, it was, uh…‘ _ No, John. Please stop....It hurts.’  _ and I felt sick.”

Sherlock gazed at the haunted expression on John’s face.

John cleared his throat, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him. “Then, you whispered, ‘ _ Victor Trevor’  _ and it was the last sound we heard from you for the next fifteen hours.”

Sherlock frowned. “I was only gone for two days?”

John turned to face him. “How long did it feel like?”

His frown deepened. “ _ Months. _ ”

Sherlock began to think it strange that when “woke up” the last time, he held no recollection of ever leaving the hospital, of getting better. He could only recall Mycroft telling him that the British government held the ability to make the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen look as if a shot had been fired from one of MI5. At the time, Sherlock was just  _ happy to be alive.  _

Sherlock knew he would have to deal with everything as soon as possible. He’d gotten the wheels turning when he uttered “Eurus” to Mycroft. Now that Mycroft knew that Sherlock was aware of her existence, there were no more secrets between the two. 

And with John, Sherlock had no idea how to tell him that his wife would continue telling more lies, even if–in her mind–it was to protect John and Rosie.

“Sherlock, we need to talk about... _ everything. _ ” John spoke quietly between them.

“In the morning,” Sherlock promised. 

Surprise flitted across John’s face. “In the morning?” he breathed. “You’re going to–”

Sherlock cut in impatiently. “Yes, explain everything.”

John reached a hand out to Sherlock’s forehead as if checking his temperature. “Where is Sherlock Holmes, my mad consulting detective?”

Sherlock smiled sadly, unable to miss John’s  _ my.  _ He couldn’t breeze past his feelings anymore, not when he’d come to terms with them whilst he was dreaming.

But John’s hand didn’t pull away. He, instead, came around to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, sending delicious shocks down Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock almost wanted to pull away–he didn’t want John to feel obligated to care for him, to comfort him.

“John, you–”

“You said  _ the man we both love. _ ”

_ Oh.  _

Sherlock inhaled sharply as if he couldn’t intake enough oxygen. “I said that, yes,” he released in exhalation. 

“The exact same way?” John whispered.

“Precisely.”

“She doesn’t love me the way you do,” John murmured, his expression worn and vulnerable with an underlayer of adoration towards Sherlock as he ran his fingers through his still damp curls. “Yours is sacrificial. Hers is...selfish. She won’t even let me name our child.”

Sherlock frowned. He promised to explain that in the morning.  _ In the morning,  _ he repeated to himself.

“Mycroft told me,” John continued. “That you were sent on a suicide mission. That you were never coming back.”

Sherlock nodded slowly in affirmation, unsure if John needed it or not.

“So, you OD’d.” John concluded.

“You make it sound so simple,” Sherlock breathed, much to John’s confusion. “ _ Sacrificial,  _ you said–yes? The difference between my two year hiatus and the six month hiatus was but one thing. One feature of interest. You.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When I…” Sherlock trailed off and John nodded in understanding. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was leave you. I thought of sixteen outcomes in which I could kill Moriarty the moment I realized I would have to leave you. The next morning, on the roof at Barts, when Moriarty informed me that he had three snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade–that my only option was to jump–I knew that I had to spend my absense protecting you from all harm. You were my utmost and vital responsibility, John Watson. Even when I killed Magnussen. I’d do it one hundred times over if it meant I could protect you. Then, when they told me I’d be away for six months, that I was going on a suicide mission, I knew that my only way out was if, when they landed, they found me dead on the plane.

“When we were on the tarmac, I wanted...no, I  _ needed  _ to tell you that I loved you. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t selfishly leave you with that last memory of me, leaving you with the weight and grievance of my secret. At least, while I was gone for those two years, you were my only motivation, my  _ reason.  _ The last time around, when there was no way out, I found my own way. I took enough drugs to overdose, letting myself drift off, going back to the beginning when we first met.”

John’s eyes were filled with tears. “I should have never–”

“No regrets, no blame.” Sherlock murmured. 

John nodded slowly, eyes drifting along Sherlock’s face in a way Sherlock had never seen John do to anyone.

“I love you,” John breathed in wonder, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying it aloud. “I’ve always  _ loved  _ you Sherlock. There was never a part of me that wanted to be without you. You saved me from my lowest point and, without you, God knows where I’d be.” 

“Don’t you see it’s the same for me, John? Without you, I’d have never found pieces of myself that were hidden deep in the confines of my mind. You keep me on my toes, you challenge me, you ground me...you keep me right, John Watson.”

That was all John could take before he covered the few inches separating him from Sherlock before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

It was only a second. A second of realization that John’s lips were on his, a second that Sherlock resolved he wanted John more than he’d ever wanted anything. Then, that second was over. And Sherlock began kissing John like a man who’d nearly been drowned. Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s face, feeling the army doctor’s stubble against his palms.

John pulled him closer so that Sherlock had no choice but to throw his leg over John’s hip, bringing them to an even closer proximity. Their pyjama bottoms did very little to hide the fact that neither one of them were wearing pants. Sherlock whimpered at the feeling of John, noting that John was much thicker than he was.

John kissed Sherlock desperately and earnestly, pouring every unspoken word and intense stare in their connection–Sherlock’s cupid bow lips molding against his as if they couldn’t dare to part. Sherlock loved him. Loved him so much he didn’t think he could dare to love anything this close.

Sherlock pulled John and John followed, letting his body hover over Sherlock. Their lips never parted and neither of the men wanted to, but they found it to be a necessity when Sherlock began pulling at John’s shirt. John lifted his arms as Sherlock pulled it up and over his head, tossing it across the room. Long, pale fingers began to explore John’s tan skin–the expanse of his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders, his bullet wound–and John released a shiver at Sherlock’s touch.

John decided it was time for Sherlock’s shirt to go and began to push it up past his stomach, over his ribs, and under his arms until Sherlock put his hands over his head to assist John in the removal of his shirt. Then, there pyjama bottoms went. John pulled the drawstring to Sherlock’s bottoms and began, lavishly, kissing and nipping every part of Sherlock he could. He kissed down Sherlock’s jaw, ran his teeth along Sherlock’s collarbone, eliciting a shiver from those perfect, swollen cupid bow lips. 

John’s hands found Sherlock’s nipples, his thumb and index finger twisting and pulling expertly. Sherlock gasped at the sensation and felt pre-cum dribble out against his stomach. John paid them both an equal amount of attention as he dipped his head down to run his tongue around Sherlock’s nipple before rolling them between his thumb and index finger. Sherlock’s hips jerked.

“John,  _ please _ .”

Sherlock only needed to plead once before John was kissing his way down his  stomach and along his hip bones, John’s fingers hooking into the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas–pulling. Sherlock helped in pushing them the rest of the way as John came into contact with Sherlock’s leaking cock. John would never be able to rid himself of the now known fact that Sherlock’s cock was the same colour of his lips. It nearly drove John to insanity and he met eyes with his consulting detective as he ran his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s length. Sherlock released a long moan that extended from the base of his throat.

John noted that where Sherlock lacked in thickness, he made up for in length and he was more than ready to taste Sherlock in every possible way he could. John’s lips wrapped around the tip of Sherlock’s cock and he ran his tongue around the head, sucking very minutely. Sherlock’s hips began to jerk in shock before John slid down, taking as much of Sherlock as he could into his mouth. Sherlock’s hands began to grasp at the sheets as his head shot up, unable to look away from that silver-grey head bobbing up and down, those lips wrapped around his cock. His orgasm was approaching much too quickly and his thighs were beginning to shake.

“John,  _ John, John. _ ” it was all Sherlock could manage. He felt the tightening in his scrotum and, abruptly, as John swirled his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock was coming. He came in long, quick spurts down John’s throat and John continued sucking–wave after wave hit Sherlock–until he was soft in John’s warm mouth.

John pulled off with an obscene pop and Sherlock gazed up at him with dilated pupils. While his body was still shaking, Sherlock managed to sit back up, to turn his brain back on. He undid the drawstring on John’s bottoms and pulled them down, revealing John’s thick, weeping cock. 

“ _ Oh,”  _ Sherlock breathed as his eyes travelled along John’s body.  “You’re so beautiful.”

John wanted to make some clever remark about Sherlock’s idea of beauty, but it was all forgotten as Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s cock. He snapped to attention at the unexpected sensation and knew he wasn’t going to last long.

“Lie down,” Sherlock murmured and John did as he was instructed. Sherlock kneeled between John’s legs and licked a long line from John’s perineum to the tip of John’s cock.

“ _ Oh,  _ fuck–Sherlock.” he groaned.

“Perhaps later,” Sherlock smirked audaciously.

“Smug bastard,” John began to chuckle, but broke off into a moan as Sherlock took John into his mouth. It should have been a crime for Sherlock to be that beautiful, his heart shaped lips wrapped around the length of John. “God, Sherlock,” John breathed as he watched those raven curls jump as Sherlock’s head bobbed up and down, taking John down to the base. Every now and again, Sherlock would surprise John with his tongue swirling around the tip of John’s cock or right at the base. Each time, John felt his thighs shake. “Of course you don’t... _ ah _ have a gag reflex,” John moaned.

He could feel his orgasm approaching swiftly. Of course Sherlock knew this and took John’s hand, placing it in his hair.

“Oh my fucking…” John gasped as Sherlock let him take free reign, pushing deeper into Sherlock’s mouth until the bed was creaking and the only sound that could be heard were John’s unsteady pants and Sherlock’s mouth sucking around him. It was too much–way too much–and John came down Sherlock’s throat, thrusting shakily into Sherlock’s mouth until he had nothing more left to give.

Sherlock climbed back up to John where John wrapped him in his open, waiting arms. Sherlock ran his nose along John’s before pressing their lips together. John’s fingers wrapped in Sherlock’s curls and held him tightly in his arms.

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured in baritone against John’s lips.

“I love you, too,” John breathed back.

There was no going back and, even if there was, neither man would ever consider it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all feedback! Let me know if you liked it! Or let me know whether you noticed anything I did and/or any inconsistencies I made.

**Author's Note:**

> I love feedback, so please don't be afraid to comment–whether it's telling me anything I've done wrong or anything you like. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: consulting-writer@tumblr.com


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